


Mysterious Ways

by Jupiter_Ash



Series: The Tales of Eden Cottage [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, POV Outsider, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21760339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash
Summary: Jo Barton had never planned to become a vicar. She had definitely never planned to become a vicar of a motley cluster of rural churches. But here she was, in the middle of the beautiful, peaceful, picturesque South Downs.Didn’t mean she had to like it though.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Tales of Eden Cottage [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1434391
Comments: 128
Kudos: 880





	1. Be Careful What You Pray For…

**Author's Note:**

> And I'm back after my break with a new Eden Cottage story.
> 
> Thank you very much to everyone who when asked on twitter told me what as a child they had wanted to be when they grew up, and for those who also made suggestions for the names of the neighbouring villages. I'm sorry I couldn't use all the suggestions.
> 
> And thank you to Geekoncaffeine for the always appreciated beta.

I lift my eyes to the mountains-  
Where does my help come from?  
Psalm 121 v 1

*

Jo Barton had never planned on becoming a vicar. 

Originally she had wanted to be a teacher, but then she had been five years old at the time and her knowledge of adult careers was rather limited. Next she wanted to be a librarian, because books. Then a veterinarian, because animals. Then a teacher again, because why not. Then a biologist, because nature. Then a vet again because animals. Then a marine biologist, because nature _and_ animals. Then a female Indiana Jones, because quite frankly, who didn’t? Then a zoologist, because frankly it sounded cool, _and_ animals. Then a teacher again, because some things come round full circle. 

And it went on.

The point was, at no point had Jo ever considered becoming a vicar.

Nope, never!

God, on the other hand, had different ideas.

There had been a handful of times in Jo’s life when God had spoken to her.

No, there had been _many_ times in her life when God had spoken to her, but that was in the usual way through the bible, or songs, or nature, or little nudges, or other people.

We’re talking about the other sort. The sort that means that afterwards you’re in no doubt that you have been _spoken_ to. The sort that is so perfect in the moment, so pure, but that afterwards leaves you shaking with emotion at having been so briefly engulfed by perfect love and grace.

It is also the sort of moment where you’re also left with absolutely no doubt as to who has been doing the talking. Which was sometimes less fun than it sounded because you sort of wish that you weren’t so sure because then you wouldn’t have to deal with what had been said, or what you were being asked to do, or the emotions that were now running rampant through you.

So there had only been a handful of times when Jo knew with absolute certainty that God had _spoken_ to her.

The first had been when she had first found God.

But that story is somewhat personal, so it isn’t about to be told here.

The second was when God told her she should become a vicar.

It was a dream, because quite frankly that was something that had a history of working, and burning bushes weren’t exactly in vogue nowadays. So it had been a dream, the type where you can’t remember what you were initially dreaming about, but suddenly there is a voice in your dream that really isn’t you, mainly because its saying things that either you really wouldn’t say or really don’t want to hear. There is a presence as well, which is sort of impossible to describe without sounding particularly crazy, especially to anyone who hasn’t had a similar experience, but it’s the sort of presence where you just know who it is because if nothing else, there is an almost overwhelming warming feeling of love.

Look don’t ask, just accept it.

God turned up in her dream and told her that she should ordain as a vicar.

And because it all made sense – as dreams do – Jo subconsciously said, “Yes, alright”, before adding, “but I can’t do that as I am now, I’m going to have to change.”

And then God chuckled - yes, really - before adding, “Yes, my child, I know.” And there was a feeling of peace, and love, and joy, and for a moment everything was perfect and possible and anything could be done.

And then it was gone, and Jo woke up.

And panicked.

It wasn’t that Jo didn’t want to become a vicar… no, wait, actually it _was_ pretty much that. Not only had it never occurred to her before this that it might be a possible career choice, now that it was in her mind the whole idea of it was positively overwhelming.

A vicar?

That meant responsibility, accountability and lots of other long words that ended in ‘bility’ which basically meant that she would need to be perfect, or at least near perfect, when actually what she was was a semi screw up who was just about keeping her life together and probably shouldn’t be given responsibility for anyone else’s life, spiritual or otherwise.

It also meant public speaking.

Yup. No.

Really, no.

So the point is, having had a dream in which God basically very kindly turned her entire world upside down, Jo did the only sensible thing she could do, she ignored it.

She was in good company in this respect. Many people better than her had ignored what God had told them. Fortunately for her though, her story did not involve any large fish.

Time passed, life passed and Jo changed, often because things like jobs forced her to. Nothing big, nothing major, just little by little in such a way that she hardly noticed, until one day, over fifteen years later, and pretty much out of the blue, God spoke to her again. 

This time God said, “Now, you’re ready.”

And Jo, who had simply been sitting on a bench on a cliff overlooking the sea, knew deep down that God was right. 

But oh boy did she wish that He wasn’t.

That was the third time that God had spoken _spoken_ to her.

So she became a vicar.

And it turned out she was rather good at it.

Even more than that though, it turned out that she actually even enjoyed it, something that was rather a surprise to her, but rather less of a surprise to God.

It wasn’t an easy job, no job dealing with people was ever going to be particularly easy, but it was rewarding in a multitude of different ways.

She completed her curacy in a multicultural, suburban city church, and then took an associate job at a similar set up in a main town church. It, therefore, came as a complete surprise when all the signs were suddenly pointing her to a small clutch of rural churches in the South Downs. 

Surely there must have been some mistake, she thought. After all, the South Downs? What did she know about small rural churches? 

And it was the South Downs. 

The _South Downs_. 

Not only was it rural, it was reasonably affluent rural. It was the epitome of middle class, middle England, with dodgy mobile phone reception.

It was gently sloping hills. It was green pastures and even greener woodland. It was footpaths and bridleways. It was tractors and horses. 

It was its own National Park for goodness sake. 

It was about as far from the concrete and tarmac of her natural stomping grounds as it was possible to get.

At least the good thing was, even if she felt reluctantly compelled to put her name forward, there was little chance of anyone thinking she was remotely suitable. There was no way they would trust someone like _her_ with a motley collection of rural churches. 

They decided to trust her with a motley collection of rural churches.

It wasn’t even funny.

‘Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding - Proverbs 3 v 5’ was what the poster on the wall helpfully informed her the day she received the official phone call.

She’d always liked that poster, up until then. 

‘Be strong and courageous,’ her bible reading the next day said while she was still in a certain amount of shock. ‘Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go. – Joshua 1 v 9’.

‘Be bold, be strong, for the LORD your God is with you’, the children sung that Sunday.

Alright, alright, fine, she could take a hint. So off she went to the South sodding Downs and a village that still merited the little in its name. 

They gave her five churches to oversee as part of the benefice; St. Mary, Longblade, St. James, Almsdean, St. Peter, Great Bleadon, Holy Trinity, Mancanton, and the main one, St. Michael and All Angels, Little Aven.

Little Aven.

It even sounded twee*. One step away from Little Haven. One step and a shimmy away from Little Heaven.

_*Also quaint, sentimental and all round far too cheery._

Perfection on a postcard. 

Mind you, the house that came with the job was rather nice. Old, quaint, a little quirky, and, with four bedrooms _and_ a downstairs study, it was way bigger than a single person needed. Yeah, it was a killer to heat in the winter, but _four bedrooms_ meant that not only could she comfortably put her parents up for an extended visit when they bothered to come back into the country, but that she could still have one bedroom just for all the random stuff she had somehow acquired over the years, like the life sized Weeping Angel* and the storm trooper helmet. She could also turn it into a sort of den, with an oversized, high definition television and her PlayStation hidden away from curious eyes.**

_*Don’t ask._

_**The Wii on the other hand was downstairs in the main room with a perfectly acceptably sized television. Somehow a Wii was considerably more acceptable for someone of her profession. A Wii meant she was quirky and sort of in with the kids, or at least she had been six years ago when Wii was still kind of a thing. A PlayStation meant she was the sort of person who actually owned a PlayStation, which was only half a step away from the sort of person who owned an Xbox, which was definitely not the sort of person the average church goer felt should be trusted with important spiritual matters, let alone important spiritual matters in a lovely, picturesque English village. In fairness, Jo sort of shared that view. After all, there were so many reasons why she had resisted the idea of becoming a vicar in the first place. Vicars didn’t shoot zombies with an M60 machine gun. Although there were some she knew who should probably try it._

Of course, the other bonus with the house was that for some of the time at least, her commute was only a couple of hundred steps from her front door.

St. Michael and All Angels was pretty much exactly what you would expect from a village Anglican parish church; 14th century, Grade I listed, and even more difficult to heat than the vicarage.

It was also more than a little obsessed with angels. 

Well, it sort of went with the name, she supposed, but really, _all_ the angels. From the carvings to the artwork. From the ends of the pews to even the roof. Cherubim. Seraphim. All four archangels*. Even a number of the kneelers, beautifully handmade by congregants over so many years, contained a higher number than usual images of angels or angel wings. 

_*That had come a bit of a surprise. Up until then she had only thought there to be three. Michael, Gabriel and Raphael she had heard of. Uriel was a new one for her._

It went with the territory, she supposed. St. Michael and All Angels. She would get used to it, she was sure.

She was right.

Two years on and she barely noticed them anymore.

What she did notice, though, was just how bloody difficult the job was. Five churches, a congregation that was both shrinking and aging, _and_ shrinking with age, and other challenges that she simply hadn’t faced in her previous urban experiences. She was doing her best, but it didn’t seem to do much, and she was tired. So tired. 

Then came the day everything became too much.

It was Daniel’s fault. It was his book she was reading through as part of her daily bible study. Daniel the captive. Daniel the exile. Daniel the stranger in a strange land. 

So it was all his fault. Him and his faith, and his angels, and those bloody lions.

She’d always rather like that story. After all, who didn’t like the idea of getting to see the people who had thrown you to the lions being fed to the lions themselves? But Daniel was more than just talking to rulers and not being eaten by lions. His faith and steadfastness in a land that was not his own was remarkable, inspiring even, even if he did have the benefit of having angels popping in to see him every so often. 

_“How can I, your servant, talk with you, my lord?”_ she read from the tenth chapter. _“My strength is gone and I can hardly breathe.”_

_Again the one who looked like a man touched me and gave me strength. “Do not be afraid, you who are highly esteemed,” he said. “Peace! Be strong now; be strong.”_

_When he spoke to me, I was strengthened and said, “Speak, my lord, since you have given me strength.”_

‘Okay then’, she prayed as she snapped her bible shut. ‘God, if you want me here, doing what you want me to do, then you need to help me. I need help. I need strength. When Daniel needed help, you sent him an angel. I need help. I’m not asking for an angel, but please… please send me some help’. 

There was no response.

She hadn’t honestly expected there to be. God was like that sometimes. Silent, distant, but from her own experience she knew that that didn’t necessarily mean that He wasn’t listening.

God was always listening. He just wasn’t always replying.

So she would just have to wait. Wait to see if her prayer would be answered, and go about as best she could in the meantime. 

*

Two days later she heard the news that the old Kingsley place had finally sold.

*

The problem with the answer to some prayers was that sometimes you didn’t recognise them for what they are until much later.

Then there is the fact that in many ways, the Almighty has a real sense of humour.

Jo had asked for help, just as the Almighty had known that she would, and although Jo wasn’t so big as to ask for an actual angel, the Almighty sent her one anyway.

In fact, the Almighty sent the exact same one that had been sent so many times to speak to Daniel.*

_*Sent so many times to speak to Daniel that the said angel had taken the opportunity to take up temporary residence in Babylon for a while, conversing with the scholars, sampling the cuisine and bumping into a certain demon in a certain magnificent set of gardens. He had also made sure to keep out of view of Daniel and his friends when he wasn’t talking to them, because that would have only complicated matters with awkward questions like, what is an angel doing eating non-kosher food and hanging around with a demon. But that is another story._

*

The old Kingsley place had been sold, which meant Little Aven was getting new neighbours.

Which also meant that Jo would no longer be the newest outsider to the village. 

*

Adam Kingsley’s funeral had been Jo’s first in Little Aven. Unfortunately for both of them, it had been only six months after she had moved to the village. Unfortunate for her because she had barely had the opportunity to get to know him so was going into the whole thing almost blind, and unfortunate for him because he might have preferred the service to have been taken by the previous vicar who he had actually known and had known him. 

Doubly unfortunately, that previous vicar was not available.

Fortunately, Mr Kingsley’s daughter Linda was the type to know exactly what her father would have wanted, including hymns, songs and style of service, so there had been very little that Jo could accidentally mess up.*

_*Because nothing upsets a congregation more than the new vicar accidentally screwing up something as important as a funeral because they didn’t do it in the way the deceased would have wanted, or worse, the way the previous vicar would have done it._

The after service gathering at Eden Cottage was the last time Jo would step foot in the place for some considerable time though, which was a shame, because it really was a rather lovely home.

She kept in touch with Linda after the funeral, partly to check how she was holding up and partly because Jo figured it was a nice thing to do. So it was to Jo that Linda sometimes turned to talk to, mainly about the house, especially since Jo had gladly agreed to keep an eye on the place. So Jo knew how much Linda wanted it to go to the right person, to someone who would appreciate and love it as her parents had, but at the same time how much she also needed it to go for the right price. Jo listened as Linda wondered if she was doing the right thing, if she was expecting too much, if she should just simply sell it to developers and let them start again. And she prayed that an answer would come, the right answer, at the right time.*

_*Provided that the right time was sooner rather than later._

Then the news came that the cottage had been sold, and it was, according to Linda, an absolute answer to prayer.

That was good, Jo thought, because at least then God was answering someone’s prayers, even if He had taken considerably longer about it than anyone would have liked.

Then the rumours about the new owners started. 

City wanker, was the first thing she heard. 

City wanker in a classic Bentley.

A sunglasses wearing city wanker in a classic Bentley.

Well, she thought, while keeping her well-practiced neutral expression, that sounded exactly what the village needed*.

_*Needless to say, Mrs Hazleton did not agree with that particular assessment. Unfortunately, Mrs Hazleton also did not agree rather verbosely._

Then there was more.

It turned out that the sunglasses wearing, hot shot city wanker in a classic Bentley came with a cuddly, tartan wearing, professor-type same-sex partner. 

Well, that was a whole new thing in itself*.

_*Although no one was going to admit to that being a thing, because this was the twenty-first century and this was not that type of small minded village thank you very much, but since for most people in the village the closest they ever came to anyone remotely LGBT that they knew about was via the TV or a trip to Brighton, it was deep down a little bit that sort of a village, so for some it totally was a thing. She just hoped the new neighbours were fully prepared for the small world that was village life, and what being different meant in such a world._

Then it turned out that the sunglasses wearing, hot shot city wanker in a classic Bentley, was considerably less of a hot shot city wanker than people had thought, and that both he and his cuddly tartan wearing professor-type same-sex partner were both in fact both rather lovely people, something that shouldn’t have been in question really, since Linda wouldn’t have sold the cottage to just anyone.

Of course, they also may or may not have been in the mafia at one point or another.

Honestly Jo wasn’t too sure how that one had come about, but she wouldn’t have been surprised if Claire had been behind that one. It sounded like a Claire thing.

Apparently it was all linked to the barbecue that Emily and Dave had hosted at their place. It had been primarily a welcome barbecue for the new neighbours, but at least secondarily an excuse to be collectively nosy and find out more about Eden’s new occupants.

Jo had been invited and honestly had been intending to go, but a hospital visit had gone on longer than expected, and then there had been an incident involving flowers at one of the other churches, and then her mother had called leaving her so emotionally wrung out that she couldn’t face doing anything other than eating ice cream and binge watching Netflix. So in the end she hadn’t made it to the barbecue, which meant she didn’t get to meet the apparently lovely but possibly mafia Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell.

That was fine, she figured, she would no doubt meet them at some point, and anyway, since most people now identified as atheist or non-religious, they probably wouldn’t be interested in meeting the local vicar anyway. 

After all, statistically speaking, gay couple in their forties, from the city, with money, what was the chance of either of them being open to the existence of God?

*

Don’t laugh.

Seriously, don’t laugh.

*

Okay, you can laugh a little bit.

Or a lot.

Fine. Laugh as much as you like.

Jo accepts that the whole situation is rather hilarious, but would like to point out that she really wasn’t to blame. How was she to know that God had the biggest sense of humour of all?

*

The point was, new couple in the neighbourhood, gay, wealthy, etc, etc, the last place she expected to find either of them was in the local church.

Her church, in fact.

Which is why, two Sundays later, she was surprised by the new face in her not exactly huge congregation. 

*

Jo knew everybody in her congregations.

Some she knew far more about than she might have ever wished.

Because of that, though, she knew every face and where they tended to sit, and with a congregation of their limited size, it was easy to spot a new face. In this case, the new face came in the appearance of a mid-to-late fortysomething year old man, with pale blond almost curls, and an honest, open, pleasant expression. He also sat with perfect poise, which was pretty impressive given the fact that the seating was Victorian wooden pews. 

Cuddly tartan wearing professor-type that just seemed to scream English, intelligent and gay? Really, for once the village gossip mill had been spot on.

Of course she had to get through the entire service before she could speak to him*.

_*And also get past Mrs Hazleton, which was a skill in itself._

As a positive though, he did linger long enough for her to get passed Mrs Hazleton, rather than leaving the building right after the service. That was nice. It was almost as if he wanted to speak to her.

“Such a lovely service, Reverend,” he said, with all impression that he meant exactly what he said, as he reached to shake her hand. “I do so particularly enjoy a good hymn, and Wesley certainly knew how to write a topping one.”

For a brief second she was speechless. The service had been, well it had been a service. Not terrible, but not particularly great, and yes there had been a hymn or two that she had thrown in because the usual pianist was away and she needed something that she knew the stand-in could play, and enough people in the congregation could sing, and yes, at least one of the hymns had been a Wesley, because, come on, the guy had literally written thousands, it was harder to find one that he hadn’t written. 

“Of course the more modern verses are lovely as well,” he continued, meaning at least that her speechlessness could go on for a short while more. ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord’ indeed. Delightful.”

Right, yes, no, he was actually saying all of this with utter sincerity. 

“Ummm, thank you,” she managed, before saying something polite and then getting to the real heart of the matter. “Mr Fell, I take it?”

He beamed at her in a way that made her instantly smile back.

“Indeed,” he said. “Aziraphale, please. I take it our reputation proceeds us.” He lowered his head conspiratorially. “Although that Mafia thing, that was all Crowley’s doing. He does have quite the most terrible wicked sense of humour sometimes.”

And also knew how to make the wheels on his classic car squeal, she noted, as the Bentley suddenly appeared round the corner and slammed to a stopped in the middle of the road not far from them.

“Oi, angel,” the figure who was indeed wearing sunglasses shouted as he popped out of the driver’s door to lean over and shout at them. “If you’re done I’ve got us dinner reservations. Family place, lots of desserts, decent wine list.”

So that was the sunglasses wearing city wanker in a classic Bentley. 

There was something about him that Jo liked immediately. 

“Be right there, dearest,” Mr Fell called back before smiling at her almost apologetically. “It has been most delightful to meet you, my dear,” he said utterly sincerely. “I look forward to a furthering our acquaintance.”

“Come along, angel!”

With that, he gave her an apologetic smile, then sort of trotted over to the car, pausing to give her a little wave before getting into the passenger’s side.

A moment later and the car roared off.

Angel, she thought as she turned to greet those still left, what a curious choice of endearment. 

*

I lift my eyes to the mountains-  
Where does my help come from?  
My help comes from the LORD  
The Maker of heaven and earth.  
Psalm 121 v 1-2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in Part Two - … You Might Just Get It
> 
> Author’s note: 
> 
> I spent some time debating what to call the church as I wanted something relevant but also common. Then I went to a wedding in a church called, St. Michael and All Angels, and I knew it had to be that. Turns out, St. Michael (with or without all the other angels) is the fourth most common name for a Church of England church in England, with 816 of them. Just so you know, St. Mary (2368), All Saints (1467), and St. Peter (1327) are the three most common. St. Gabriel has just 29. :D


	2. …You Might Just Get It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings dear readers. Apologies, I honestly did not expect this part to take me, uh, five months? But there we go, it's here now.
> 
> For readers of the rest of the verse, this fits in with some of the events of Angel Space chapter two. Namely, the Summer Fete.
> 
> Big thank you to Kizzia who kindly helped smoothing out the rough bits and making it sound better.
> 
> Oh, and to the reader who jokingly asked on the previous part what sort of a person owns a cut out Weeping Angel? I do. :D

The Little Aven Summer Fete was one of the events that Jo had _delightfully_ inherited from her predecessor. It was pretty much the last thing she wanted since her yearly events list was already long enough with just the standard ecclesiastical and cultural festivals that included Easter, Harvest, Halloween, Guy Fawkes Night, and the monstrosity that was Christmas. 

Adding in another just seemed excessive.

And crazy.

Definitely crazy.

There was also something about the Summer Fete that somehow sent everyone who was involved with it a little mad. Regardless of what anyone claimed, it wasn’t the most important village event of the year. It wasn’t even the most anticipated. And Mrs. Hazelton’s declaration that it was the ‘jewel in the Little Aven’s crown’ was somewhat of an overstatement. 

What made it even more ridiculous, other than the fact that the rest of the organising committee was for once in agreement with Mrs. Hazelton, was the fact that in the grand scheme of things, the Summer Fete didn’t really make a difference. Sure it raised a little money for charity, but it wasn’t a massive amount considering, and it seemed that people had forgotten that that was the purpose of it in the first place.

Of course, what made it even worse for her, was that one of her roles before coming to Little Aven had been helping to organise a large annual inter-Church Pride event, something that had had considerably more meaning to it than a random village fete. And what had she traded all that in for? Discussions around baking competitions and tombola, apparently.

Honestly, God had a lot to answer for. 

At least the other annual village fete, the autumn one, which didn’t even pretend it was raising money for charity, was loosely linked with Harvest and Michaelmas*. The Summer Fete had no connection to the ecclesiastical calendar, so it really shouldn’t have been her remit at all, and yet here she was, somehow on the organising committee, and being pulled in more year on year. If it continued like this she would be running the whole thing before long.

_*When your church is called St. Michael and All Angels, and was rather obsessed with, well, angels, the least you could do was celebrate the Feast of the Archangels, also known as Michael’s Mass._

She could just about have coped with it, had it not been for the fact that something was always guaranteed to go wrong, and no amount of forward planning or contingency working ever seemed to help. If money wasn’t the issue, then it was time, or resources, or even the bloody weather. It might have been July, it might have been the south of England, but even then you couldn’t guarantee it was going to be dry. Warm or hot would only be a bonus.* There was a reason why the Autumn Fete at the end of September was always held inside**.

 _*Unless of course it was the middle of a heat wave, which meant trying to stop the cakes from melting, the ice creams from melting, the face paints from, well, melting, and anything else that could possible melt from doing so, while everyone else got to complain about the heat instead of the rain._

_**Less chance of melting, freezing, being drenched, or being blown away. Or in particularly dramatic years, all four in the same afternoon._

As it was, she found the anxiety and dread the Fete inspired in her being compounded year on year by the increasing reliance the committee were placing on her, and she wasn’t afraid to admit – in the privacy of her own head – that it was really getting to her. 

Even this year, when the preparations had actually been going relatively smoothly, she felt out of sorts. The minor disagreements had been sorted, if not to everyone’s satisfaction, then at least to everyone’s ability to stop complaining. The stalls had all been agreed upon, both in terms of what they were and where they were to be placed. The bouncy castle had been booked and paid for. As had the face painting stand. Even the weather had been forecast to be dry with some sunshine. 

Everything had been going so well that she’d almost managed to convince herself she was worrying over nothing. 

Then the children’s entertainer had fallen and broken his leg with three days to go.

Because there had to be _something_. 

Jason the Clown was, she had been informed, a must have for the event. From what Jo could gather, he had been covering the Summer Fete for the best part of two decades. It was universally accepted that he had a standing booking for the event. The one time Jo had suggested that maybe they should try something different, certain people hadn’t spoken to her for at least a week*, and even now she was sure it was still being held against her. It was apparently unthinkable that Jason the Clown wouldn’t be there with his white painted face and his well-worn act. 

_*Although the silence from Mrs. Hazelton was more of a blessing than a curse_

Admittedly, as clowns went, Jason was pretty good. He was silly without being cringe worthy. He was sweet without being creepy. He told some wonderful stories, even if they did become repetitive over the years. And he made some pretty cool balloon animals on request.

He was also a genuinely decent guy as well, which somehow made him breaking his leg at such a key time all the more frustrating.*

_*Mainly because you really couldn’t take your frustration out on him. He was just too generally nice for that. Which somehow only made things worse._

For Jo it meant another visit to the local hospital and a whole lot of frantic WhatsApp messages, mainly from a rather panicky Hayley, about what on earth they were going to do now.

What Jo had thought they would do now was have the Fete without the children’s entertainer. After all, their clown was all casted up and looking rather sorry for himself, and since the Fete was in three days it would be virtually impossible to find a replacement. Besides, they had the band, the bouncy castle and the face painting, so the children would be entertained regardless. 

Apparently, this was not an option, though. The Summer Fete, apparently, _had_ to have a children’s entertainer. It was the law. Never mind that no one knew how to go about looking for a replacement, or that it was ridiculously last minute, or that it might completely wreck their budget. The show must go on.

And it looked like she was going to have to do the searching.

As if she didn’t already have enough to do.

After another unscheduled hospital visit, several phone calls, and several further flurries of WhatsApp messages, what she really wanted was a break, some quiet, the chance to clear her head, and even, maybe, perhaps, the chance to give the matter some decent prayer*.

_*‘Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you’ – 1 Peter 5:7 was a verse she lived by, or at least tried to live by, because quite frankly anxiety was the last thing she wanted or needed. Unfortunately, it was easier said than done though, as anxiety for her had the habit of finding its way back to her regardless of how much casting of it she did._

So she went to church. 

St. Michael’s was, after all, technically her main place of work, even if she didn’t seem to spend too much time there outside of services. It was, however, thanks to the church warden and proclaimed proudly by the sign outside, nearly always ‘open for visitors, prayer and quietness from about 8:00 am until sunset’, even if most of the visitors were only there because they were sheltering from the rain.

Prayer and quietness was exactly what she needed it for, and from experience it was usually pretty quiet on a Wednesday afternoon. It should be able to afford her the opportunity to grab a prayer beyond the current, ‘LORD, please help!’ that had been on constant loop in her brain since she’d first received the message about Jason’s leg.

She wasn’t, therefore, expecting to find the church occupied.

But occupied it was.

Her newest congregant was never going to be the sort of person who could easily blend in somewhere. Even if he didn’t stand out in the sort of obvious way that his partner* did, there was something about Mr. Fell** that sort of drew you straight in. Maybe it was the way he always wore the same smart but dated clothing, or the way his posture was always perfect, or the way he looked at you, with kindness and understanding, his face informing you that not only was he listening but that everything would somehow be better just by talking to him.

_*Partner, civil-partner, husband, boyfriend, significant other, the village was still entertaining itself with debating the exact nature of the relationship of the newcomers. It had been suggested that someone should just ask them, but that, it had quickly been agreed, would take all the fun out of it._

_**First name also currently up for debate, although she was standing by the belief he had introduced himself to her as Aziraphale, which, admittedly, only added to the discussion._

She hadn’t been looking for someone to talk to, but now that he was there it would be remise of her to not at least greet him. After all, he was in her church. It was sort of her job to check that he was alright and wasn’t in need of spiritual guidance, support, or reassurance.

So she greeted him with a gentle smile and a leading question to see if he needed her help.

“Oh, yes,” he said, returning her smile with a broad one of his own, “quite alright, my dear. I was just taking the time to admire your Roof Angels. Such a marvel, and so uncommon. There are so few outside of East Anglia. No doubt that was key to their survival. Dowsing was rather zealous in his destruction of them I’m afraid, but that was the Puritans for you. Poor souls*. These ones, though, really are quite exquisite.” 

_*Aziraphale has a rather complicated relationship with the Puritans. You might have called it a love/hate relationship, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was a being of love who was called to love all of Her creatures, even the not so easy to love ones. The Puritans did many good things in their quest to bring people back to what they considered the true faith, but they also destroyed an awful lot of artwork, banned music from their services, and had a holy and overzealous obsession with stamping out witchcraft, mostly by killing anyone who looked like their idea of a witch. Then to make it even worse, they cancelled Christmas. In regards to it all, Aziraphale could honestly say that neither he nor Crowley were responsible for that particular group, which was fortunate as both of them had come quite close to being discorporated by the group at one point or another – Crowley for being a demon (naturally), Aziraphale for being a witch (because of course) – and neither of them would have been able to live with the knowledge that their actions had inadvertently cause the discorporation of the other._

Right, roof angels. 

She had, quite honestly, never paid much attention to the interior of the roof, or to the angels that were apparently represented there, particularly on or by the cross beams, and she also had to wonder how good his eye sight was given that he was admiring them from quite a distance away.

“Oh but I’m sure you didn’t come here to be distracted by them, or by little old me,” he remarked, looking back and across at her. “You look like I’m diverting you from some great purpose.”

“I- no- uh-” she started to say, with the idea that what would come out was a denial that he was diverting her from anything truly important and that of course she had time to spend talking to him about more (bloody) angels.

What actually came out, however, was a gabble of words which clearly showed that she needed some help – divine or otherwise – and in fact led to her being guided over to the closest pew to sit down and the suggestion that she should tell him everything that was the matter.

It turned out he really was a fantastic listener. So out it all came; the challenges, the stress, the problems with the Fete, her frustrations with being in Little Aven at all, although she was sure this was where God wanted her to be even if she couldn’t really understand why.

“Three years ago I was organising Christian Pride events,” she sniffed into the handkerchief she had somehow acquired. “Now I’m having to find a last minute children’s entertainer because apparently we can’t have the Fete without one and the current one is laid up with a broken leg. It’s just so, so frustrating. I want to do things that I know will make a difference, but I can’t see that I’m doing that here. I’m just doing the same old things they’ve always done because every time I try and change something all I get is resistance and ‘oh, but this is how we’ve always done it’. I guess I’m just tired and a bit depressed, and I don’t think God is listening to me anymore, but then it was a pretty stupid thing to ask for, that He’d send me someone to help, like he sent Daniel that angel, but there you go. I suppose you could say I was desperate, and I suppose I still am.”

She was sure it probably sounded rather silly and confusing to him, but he kindly did not let that show. Rather he let her talk and interjected with appropriate sounds at just the right places. There was only so much she could say though, so at some point she would have to stop talking, at which point she knew she would then feel rather foolish about the whole thing.

She finally did stop herself talking, and waited for the mortification to overtake her.

It didn’t come. What did come, however, was the soft touch of his hand on her arm. It was only a gentle touch, but it was surprisingly reassuring and comforting.

“Oh I’m sure the Almighty heard your prayer,” he said kindly. “And from experience, She does have a habit of answering them in quite unexpected ways. You might even say ineffable ways. Or as William Cowper wrote in that marvellous hymn of his, ‘God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm.’”

She nodded dumbly but made a note to look that hymn up later as it wasn’t one she recognised.

“Now,” he continued, much to her surprise, “I can’t promise an answering angel, Daniel’s human looking one or otherwise, but if it so helps I do have some little skill in children’s entertainment, and magic in particular. I am more than happy to offer them up to you as a stand-in if you are in such need.”

Jo found herself staring vacantly. The last thing she had expected as an outcome of this impromptu unloading session was the problem to actually be solved.

“Magic?” she said rather blankly and yet not without a little hope.

“Oh yes. The Amazing Mr. Fell,” he said, wiggling his shoulders briefly. “I have a top hat and frock coat just for it. I may not be John Maskelyne, but I can do a trick or two.”

She had no idea who John Maskelyne was, but since the literal answer to her prayers was sitting next to her with a bright, hopeful expression, she had no reason to say no.

“Delightful,” he beamed at her. “This Saturday you say? Well then, I’d best be off home. I have some skills to brush up on and a top hat and coat to brush down. Oooh, this will be such delightful fun.”

Then he was leaving before she could tell him what time the Fete started or sort out what they were going to do about payment.

Sitting back and admitting defeat, she stared up at the ceiling, her gaze catching on a figure she presumed to be one of the roof angels.

“Alright, alright,” she muttered, but with a small smile on her face. “You win. This time.”

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and took the moment to just sit, quiet in the house of God.

The LORD does indeed work in mysterious ways.

She, however, had other things she needed to do.

Opening her eyes again, she fished out her mobile and flicked through the address book. There were times when messaging was more than fine, and there were others when it really needed an actual call.

She pressed the button.

“Hi Hayley,” she said when it was picked up, “it’s Jo.”

* 

_The Amazing Mr. Fell_ was somehow both the most ridiculous and the most hilarious thing she had seen in a long time. The particularly amazing thing about it was how well those two things combined into something that was both bad and, at the same time, weirdly good.

“I thought you said he could do magic?” Hayley all but hissed at her.

“Well, he _said_ he could,” she responded mildly, because quite frankly this was all too silly to get angry over. “And it’s not as if I had any reason to disbelieve him. Also, it’s not as if we have much choice. You wanted an entertainer, look at the kids, they’re thoroughly entertained.”

This, at least, was completely true. The children, or at least the younger children, were indeed being entertained by the spectacle. It didn’t matter to them that the tricks weren’t going to plan, all that mattered was that packs of cards were being scattered across the floor and incomprehensibly long handkerchiefs were being pulled from pockets of seemingly unsuspecting passers-by*.

_*Which, honestly, really was a trick in itself._

On the bright side, several children were now a pound better off after he had pulled coins from their ears, so they at least were happy about it, even if their parents wouldn’t be once the money had all been spent on sweets and fizzy drinks.

 _The Amazing Mr. Fell_ did appear to be dying on his feet though, which meant Jo really felt as if she should do something about it. Persuade him to take a break perhaps? Surely that couldn’t hurt.

Or maybe she should have a chat with his partner first.

Until now she hadn’t actually spoken to Mr. Fell’s sunglasses wearing, Bentley driving other half. On occasion she had seen him when he came to pick up Mr. Fell after a service, and once or twice at a distance in town, but she got the impression she wasn’t his favourite person, although that might have simply have been due to the presence of her dog collar. ‘Not a church goer’ was how Mr. Fell had once described him. Which was fine. At least then it meant he wasn’t avoiding her for other reasons. 

It was a shame really, because she had a feeling she might like him. It was just one of those frustrating consequences of owning a dog collar. Everyone who saw it just sort of presumed they therefore knew what sort of person you were. And while they might be partially right – after all, it was pretty hard to be an Anglican vicar without having at least a basic belief in God – it didn’t mean that that belief was the only thing about you, or that it was the only thing you were interested in.

Mr. Fell’s dear Mr. Crowley seemed just like the sort of person she would have been friends with before all of this. A little bit cheeky, a little bit mischievous, a whole heap of not caring about what other people thought of him, but overall, thoroughly _interesting_. 

So maybe now would be a good time to go and introduce herself*.

_*And see if she could figure out how two so different appearing people somehow worked so well together._

Or maybe not, since he was now in conversation with Joshua Hargreaves, which was odd in itself, since Joshua rarely talked to anyone.

Mr. Fell, in the meantime, was now playing around with his top hat, out of which he had, somewhat surprisingly, managed to pull a rabbit.

A real live rabbit.

Okay, that _was_ a little bit impressive. And it looked like some of the children at least agreed with her if the gasps of delight were anything to go by. And then there were the small reaching hands who all wanted to pet the poor thing. 

That was something at least.

Then somehow there was not only a rabbit, but a guinea pig or two, a hamster, an overly fluffy thing that might have been a chinchilla, a kitten, and, since one was obviously not enough, another rabbit. 

Honestly, it was more than a little impressive. Especially as he would have needed to smuggle them in from somewhere without anyone noticing. 

And quite frankly, the part where he had stuck his head into the hat just to check that there were no more animals _had_ been rather funny.

It turned out _The Amazing Mr. Fell_ was pretty amazing after all.

*

Even more amazingly, it turned out that he didn’t want paying either.

“Oh, goodness me, no,” he had said when Jo managed to catch up with him once the Fete was over. “I’m sure you’ve got far more worthy causes for the money to be put towards. And besides,” he added, “it was fun.”

His partner had grinned at that, hands somehow thrusted into the pockets of those extra skinny, skinny jeans.*

_*It really was unfair how good he could look in those. She could barely get her foot in a pair like that._

“And there’s that poor fellow who broke his leg,” Mr. Fell continued. “I’m sure he could do with the money far more than I. Tell him I merely stood in his place.”

That wasn’t a bad idea, actually. She had no idea if Jason had a steady income, but he was hardly going to be doing any of his usual clowning any time soon. He would no doubt appreciate the money.

Of course, that just left her with another issue; how to say thank you. While the magic act had been rather hit and miss, all the feedback she’d had about the impromptu petting zoo was overwhelmingly positive. There had even been suggestions that maybe they should try something like that again*.

_*Well, it was better than that time with the donkey. Never again!_

So the question of thanks was something she was going to have to give some thought to.

Then it came to her.

*

It was important that she picked the right time. Nothing could be more disastrous than dropping in on someone unannounced and picking a really inopportune moment, like dinner being on the table, or a favourite show being on the telly. 

And her being a vicar did not spare her from censure. The opposite in fact, especially when one member of the household was particularly anti-church*.

_*Of course in this case Crowley was more anti-church because of what it did to the soles of his feet rather than being against the institution, concept or belief. He did, after all, believe in the existence of the higher being known as God. At this point, of course, Jo knew only that he was ‘not a church-goer’._

And then there was the fact part of her wanted them both to be there when she visited. Mr Fell being there was sort of a necessity, but this would be such a perfect opportunity to finally properly meet Mr. Crowley, he of the sunglasses and classic Bentley.

So she picked a time in the late afternoon when the aforementioned Bentley was parked on the gravel pathway at the front for the house and there was nothing significant on the TV.

She had only been to Eden Cottage a few times, the last of which had been for Adam Kingsley’s funeral. Then, having been empty for so long and despite Linda’s attempts at keeping it nice, it had lost that lived-in feel to it. Now that empty feeling was well and truly gone. If the new occupants had done nothing else, they had turned it back into a lovely home.

Pressing the door bell, she admired the climbing rose bush by the door while she waited. She hadn’t noticed it before, so either it was new or she had just somehow missed it previously. Either way, it was rather lovely if a little unusual, with its dark green leaves and large, flat rosette type flowers, soft yellow in colour with the petals paling towards the edges. There was a pleasant smell to it as well, something familiar that somehow reminded her of tea and Christmas.

She was just bending over one flower to get a closer smell when the door opened and looking up she was greeted by a shock of red hair and a pair of sunglasses.

“Oooooh,” the voice drawled as he looked her up and down, an eyebrow rising above the tinted lenses, “a home visit. Aren’t we so lucky.”

There was a smile though, which softened the words, and then she was being shown into the house.

Her first thought, as she went through, was books. Holy heck there were a lot of books. And not new ones, either. These were proper, old fashioned, gold lettered books, the types you found in old houses or special libraries, all different shapes and sizes, but all in some sort of order. 

Her second thought was plants. Beautiful, verdant, vibrant plants carefully placed amongst the books and the shelves, giving a lovely homely feel to the place.

Her third thought was back to the books, because, wow, yes, there really were a lot. That was one thing that hadn’t been exaggerated, although Sandra and Emily hadn’t mentioned just how many religious books he had. 

And were those Bibles?

Jo was no stranger to a bible. She owned at least a dozen different translations or versions herself*, but here were some she hadn’t seen since her training days, and some she had never seen at all. 

_*Fifteen actually, more or less, depending upon how you counted them. New International Version; Today’s New International Version; the revised New International Version; Good News Bible; King James Bible; New King James Version; The Amplified Bible; Living Bible; The Message; The Street Bible; three different Children’s Bibles; The Graphic Bible; and the Manga Bible. There was also www.biblegateway.com should she suddenly be in need of any other translation. Unfortunately those ones didn’t have any pictures._

From their brief conversations, Jo had gathered that her newest congregant was well versed in both theology and history; he had gotten all of her references, after all, and more besides. She had simply put it down to an ultra-conservative religious family and upbringing, which went with what everyone else had been alluding too after the barbeque*, but even so, this collection was impressive to the extreme. 

_*Estranged definitely, probably not accepting of homosexuality in general, their relationship in specific, and may or may not be linked to the mafia._

And then next to the bibles were the theologically based books. Writings by famous names such as C.S. Lewis and G. K. Chesterton. Works by Martin Luther, by John Calvin, by John Wesley, by Charles Spurgeon. Books of hymns by Martin Luther again, by Isaac Watts, by the great Charles Wesley. 

So many works, so many names, it was almost overwhelming for her to look at. Some she recognised, too many she didn’t, and she knew of several academic theologians who would do nearly anything short of selling their souls to have the chance to look through some of these.

She had known they must have money – the Bentley alone said that, and Linda had let it slip that they had bought the cottage outright, cash, at above asking price – and she had known there had been a bookshop, but this was somehow more than that. 

This was… this was… well, whatever it was, it was forcing her to rethinking everything she might have thought she had known about them. She just didn’t have a clue as to what she was supposed to be taking away from this. 

Then Mr. Crowley was back, his other half with him. 

“Jo, my dear, how delightful,” Mr. Fell said, looking for all the world as if he actually was delighted to see her. “Welcome to our little home.”

Behind him, Mr. Crowley sloped against a bookshelf, arms crossed, jeans far too skinny, and clearly watching her through his sunglasses. 

Right, now, what was it she had come here for? Oh yes.

“Hope you don’t mind me just dropping in,” she said, noting the way that _The Amazing Mr. Fell_ was so quick to reassure that that she was more than welcome to do so, “but I just wanted to offer you a small thank you for helping me out with the Fete.”

Again, there was lots of reassurance that it had not been a hardship at all and that he had been most delighted to be able to do so, and now she had seen their place she was certainly assured that he was in no need of the money. 

“Even so,” she continued, “I asked Hayley for a small favour, and here, for you.”

It wasn’t much, more of a token gesture than anything else*, but one that she had hoped would go down well, especially if what had been said about the barbeque was anything to go by.

_*If nothing else, for the look of surprise and gratitude Jason had had when she had taken him his clowning payment even though he hadn’t actually performed, and explained that his replacement had asked for him to have it regardless. There had been tears. There had been confessions that while he loved his vocation, he only had limited streams of income and he had been wondering how he was going to cope with the loss of earnings due to his leg. An answer to prayer, Jo had been told, a real answer to prayer._

“Is that, is that _cheesecake_ ,” his partner said, suddenly sidling up behind him. “Homemade, _utterly divine, perfection with every bite, excruciatingly embarrassing_ raspberry and white chocolate cheesecake?”

“Crowley!” Mr. Fell admonished, but the look in his wide eyes was one of amusement rather than true admonishment. 

“Oh angel,” his partner grinned, apparently all too used to having his name said in such a manner, “barely been here five minutes and they’ve already got your number.”

“This is truly most kind of you, my dear,” Mr. Fell said looking back at her. “We will most ardently enjoy this.”

“ _We_ will, will we?” Mr. Crowley said archly. 

“Well see if I let you have any if you go on like that, you devilish fiend,” Mr. Fell said. 

“Devilish fiend. That’s one of my better qualities,” Mr. Crowley continued. “Though you might not want to go on about it so much or else our good vicar here might believe you and try to stage an intervention to get you away from my evil wiles.” He offered a wink to her, or at least she thought he did considering his eyes were still covered by the sunglasses. 

It did make her wonder though, just how many ‘interventions’ they had had to endure over the misguided belief that Crowley was the corrupting element. It wouldn’t be the first story she had heard of conservative religious families in particular laying the blame of homosexual corruption at the feet of the one their otherwise ‘normal’ family member had fallen in love with. It broke her heart every time she heard it. 

It also, sadly, explained so much about these two, the rumoured estrangement from their families, the moving to a completely new place, and now she was looking for it, the lack of personal photographs.

It was something she should definitely keep in mind going forward. Who knew how much of a sensitive, painful subject it might be. 

She was, however, quick to point out there wouldn’t be any interventions here. 

“I’m sure they would be utterly futile,” she offered in what she hoped was a light hearted but sympathetic and understanding way. 

Fortunately, Mr. Fell jovially agreed with her with a “Quite right too,” and a “utterly futile,” before insisting that she stay for a cup of tea, and despite her protestations that it was supposed to be a thank you gift, a slice of cheesecake as well. 

“What’s a gift if not to be shared?” Mr. Fell said as he tucked into his own slice. “Oh, this is utterly divine.”

Mr. Crowley merely grinned before somehow turning the conversation around to her and how an obviously metropolitan person had ended up in a place such as Little Aven. 

So she ended up telling them. Then she told them about her parents and her family. Then some more about her job and the frustrations that it brought, including how she had apparently traded in Pride for a village Fete.

Then Crowley – who had definitely had the mister dropped off his name by this stage – had shrugged and pointed out that nothing was stopping her from having a LGBTQIA friendly stall at the Summer Fete since she was pretty much organising it anyway, and suddenly Jo felt that rush of her entire life being suddenly turned upside down and inside out. Tears prickled behind her eyes.

Because of course.

Nothing was stopping her. 

Not really. 

Yes, she complained about how hard it was to get people to agree to change in a place like Little Aven, but she had forgotten two simple facts, one that there were times when you needed to be the change that you wished to see, and two, that sometimes it was just easier to do something than to ask for permission. 

Just look at the success of the animals at the Fete. No one would have agreed had they known about it in advance, but having happened it was now agreed to have been a big hit.

“If it helps,” Crowley said lazily, “just blame it on us. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale - she was now almost 90% certain that was actually his name. Maybe 80%? - said. “You could pitch it under inclusivity and being relevant considering the lovely Mr. Fell and his devilishly handsome manfriend.”

“Manfriend?” Crowley appeared to choke at that and Jo, for one, didn’t blame him. “Manfriend? What in goodness knows whose name is a ‘manfriend’?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said with a frown, “I know we haven’t exactly discussed official terms, but considering everything, I felt that ‘boyfriend’ sounded a little adolescent.”

“So you went with ‘manfriend’ instead?”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale added, his face suddenly contorted with anguish. “I see your point. I’m so sorry, my love. Would ‘personfriend’ suit you better?”

Crowley made a “Ngk” sort of sound, which was one part delightful, and one part worrying, and once again Jo was reassessing everything she thought she knew about them, her mental list for Crowley now including _? gender identity_. 

“Partner, angel,” he managed to splutter. “It’s been right there, for, well, for a ridiculously long time considering. It would have been so easy to reach for that one.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale conceded, “but it lacks precision. It could mean business partners. Or civil partners. Or dance partners.”

Crowley made another “Ngk” kind of sound. 

“And you were my friend for ever such a long time before you were my partner, any type of partner, and considering everything, I thought it important to include that in whatever we want to call ourselves now, because first and foremost, Crowley, you are and always have been my friend.”

Crowley’s mouth opened, then it shut, then it opened again, and then he just sort of collapsed in on himself. 

“You are the most ridiculous being in this universe,” Crowley said almost wearily. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, seemed to take that as a marvellous complement and then went to fetch a fresh pot of tea.

“Do your Pride stand,” Crowley said after he was gone. “Blame it on us and our corrupting influence if need be.”

“Would you help me?” she asked. “One or both of you?”

Crowley shrugged. “Sure, why not. Getting involved with local activities, that’s what normal people do, right?”

As people went, Jo was pretty much sure that these two were far from normal, but in a weirdly exciting way. 

_‘Send me some help’_ she suddenly remembered. The prayer she had prayed out of desperation when she had been at one of her lowest points. _‘If you want me here, doing what you want me to do, then you need to help me’._

Is that what had happened she wondered as Aziraphale came back in with a fresh pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. Had the Lord seen fit to answer her prayer? 

The Lord works in mysterious ways, that was what Aziraphale had told her only a week ago while sitting in the church. 

Were these two, however unlikely, part of those ‘ways’?

Considering how they were now good naturedly bickering about acceptable terms for their relationship, it was hard to picture them as anything but a couple of forty-something year olds trying to sort out something that most people sort out much earlier in life. And yet there was something _more_ about them; something older, something stranger, something she hadn’t quite put her finger on about them. Yet. 

And she then smiled slightly as another phrase suddenly came to mind, a phrase a friend from her training days had been very fond of:

_Be careful what you pray for… you might just get it!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes:
> 
> Because I’m someone who can’t write anything without a certain amount of meticulous research, the rose growing by the door that Jo admires is called The Pilgrim. It is an English Climbing Rose by David Austen named after the pilgrims in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. One look at it and I knew I was looking at the rose version of Aziraphale; soft golden yellow, fussy looking but in a classic way, suitable in all soil types, facing any direction, with partial to full sunlight. A repeat flowerer, it means it blooms throughout summer and autumn, and it apparently smells like tea and myrrh. Colour, type, smell, versatile and named for Chaucer, could there be a more Aziraphale-like rose? https://www.davidaustinroses.co.uk/the-pilgrim-climbing-rose 
> 
> And the hymn that Aziraphale quotes from, by William Cowper (1731-1800)
> 
> God moves in a mysterious way  
> His wonders to perform;  
> He plants His footstep in the sea  
> And rides upon the storm.
> 
> Deep in unfathomable mines  
> Of never failing skill  
> He treasures up His bright designs  
> And works His sov’reign will.
> 
> Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;  
> The clouds ye so much dread  
> Are big with mercy and shall break  
> In blessings on your head.
> 
> Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,  
> But trust Him for His grace;  
> Behind a frowning providence  
> He hides a smiling face
> 
> His purposes will ripen fast,  
> Unfolding every hour;  
> The bud may have a bitter taste,  
> But sweet will be the flow’r.
> 
> Blind unbelief is sure to err  
> And scan His work in vain;  
> God is His own interpreter,  
> And He will make it plan.


End file.
